Finding Peace
by MacsLady
Summary: Mac has a bad dream, but doesn't have to face it alone...


**Finding Peace.**

**Summary: **Mac has a bad dream, but he doesn't have to face it alone....

**Pairing: **Mac/Don

**Rating: M** for some slashy stuff, death, bombings.

**Disclaimer:**Characters aren't mine. I wish Mac and Don _were_ mine, though.

_Heat, dust, pain. The stench of oil, and explosives, the sickly sweet smell of burnt flesh mixed with the coppery aroma of blood. The truck, barrelling impossibly fast towards the barracks, so fast that by the time he and Whitney have their weapons locked and loaded it is too close, it is too late. The boom, louder than any noise he has ever heard before, then blackness, then awareness of sights and smells….and sounds. Men, his men, his friends, his superiors, screaming, moaning. His chest feels like it is burning. He stumbles to his feet and squints through the choking cloud of dust and debris. He sees figures stumbling out of the destroyed barracks, wounded Marines dragging others, some of whom he knows must be dead, out of the rubble. He has been trained to fight in wars, but this was meant to be a fucking peacekeeping mission, they aren't even allowed to shoot their guns most of the time. They were supposed to be here to keep the peace, his captain had told him this first billet shouldn't be too tough. America is not at war at the current time. He was just glad to be out of the States. Out of Chicago. Seeing the destruction before him makes his wish he were anywhere but here._

_He is snapped out of his thoughts when he sees Whitney, lying broken and bloodied on the ground, and runs towards him. He drops to his knees and calls Whitney's name over and over but the young Marine does not respond. Mac desperately tries to stem the bleeding, the basic medical training running through his head, telling him what to do, but not how to keep calm. Whitney's hot blood covers his hands, as he pleads for him to respond. Nothing, Whitney is slipping away, and he is powerless. Whitney's dark blood stains Mac's hands, his desert cammies, the sand around them, and behind him is hell on earth, the screams still resounding, the confused radio chatter, the stench of death and destruction…._

Mac bolts upright, breathing hard. He is damp with sweat. He closes his eyes tight against the images still strong in his mind's eye, and drops his head into his hands, groaning softly. All these years later, the grief slams hard in the chest again, fills his heart and throat so that he almost can't breathe….just like back then…

A strong hand slides down over his shoulder, while a warm, muscled arm wraps around his waist. Lips lightly brush the back of his neck, and his lover's voice rumbles in his ear, soft with concern.

' 'Nother bad dream, Mac?'

Mac turns and buries his head in Don's neck, inhaling his familiar scent. He would never let himself appear so vulnerable on the job, but in private, alone with Don, he can let go, relinquish control, knowing Don won't judge him. He sighs as Don's hand moves in reassuring circles over his back. Don is a big man, easily as strong and tough as any of Mac's Marine buddies, and Mac is still surprised at how gentle and tender the tough, snarky New York cop can be when he wants to be.

Mac nods.

'Beirut,' he says.

Don sucks in a breath, and is silent for a moment. Mac has told him about Beirut and after what happened in the Lessing case, he knows Don has a good idea of what it felt like to live through that. Mac knows this, because it has been he who has held Don after he wakes from his own nightmares of explosions and rubble and blood and terror.

Don doesn't speak, just holds Mac, waiting for him to speak.

'I feel so guilty, Don. Why did I live through that day, why not Whitney? He was only 19, he'd just got married to some girl back home before we left for Beirut. He was so young. I was older. No one would have missed me if I died that day, so why him, and not me? It should have been me.'

Mac feels Don's body stiffen, and he pulls away slightly, gripping Mac's chin firmly in his cupped hand, and forcing Mac to meet his eyes, the moonlight making his eyes like blue steel.

'Don't you ever fucking say that again, Mac,' says Don, and his voice is shattered steel, broken with emotion, 'Don't you ever say you should have died that day. You are a good man, y'hear? You did all you could that day. I'm sorry your friend died, Mac, I'm sorry for you, and for 'im, and for his family, but y'know what? I'm _glad_ it was him and not you who died that day, and I don't care if that makes me a selfish bastard. If you had died, who would've saved me when this happened?' Don grabbed Mac's hand with his free one and pressed it to the web of scars on his chest. 'I fuckin' hate these scars, Mac, but I'd sure as hell rather have them than be dead, and the only reason I'm not dead is because of you. And don't you dare say the docs at the hospital helped save me, 'cause the one who lead the operation told me if it wasn't for what you did, I'd'a been dead. If you had died, we would never have met, and this,' he gestured at the two of them, 'This would never have happened. And I can't imagine that, Mac. So don't ever tell me you should have died that day, because I for one am damn glad you didn't.'

Mac is stunned by the passion and emotion in Don's voice.

'Don, I….I don't know what to say,'

'You don't have to say anything. Just promise me you'll stop with this 'I should have died' bullshit, okay? Don't make me think about you dying, Mac.'

'I promise,' Mac whispers.

'Good.'

Don's lips meet his in a hard, demanding, kiss. Mac closes his eyes and kisses the younger man back, feels the blood thunder in his veins, feels every inch of his bare skin that is contact with Don's tingle with arousal. At the same time the tightness in his chest and throat dissipates and vanishes. Don softens the kiss, it becomes slow and tender and Mac's tight shoulders relax, his body melding into his lover's, and the horrific images of blood and death and destruction begin to fade from his mind. Don ends the kiss, and this time, Mac's hard breathing is from the thrill of the kiss, not the terror of memories.

'Better?' asks Don, kissing his cheek.

Mac just nods, his eyes meeting his lover's. Mac lets all his emotions show in his eyes, hoping Don will see, and understand.

Don smiles, and nods slightly.

'Good. Lie down, Mac. It's only 3am, you can still get some sleep.'

Mac allows Don to gently push him back down onto the mattress, and feels the younger man's lithe, strong body curl around his. Mac sighs and closes his eyes. It has been a long time since he felt so content, so safe. Before, he would have paced the floor or sat on the couch or gone to work ridiculously early, gone to a coffee shop and sat with the night shift workers and other lonely people with nowhere to go and no hope of sleep at 3am, done anything rather than close his eyes and risk the resurgence of nightmares. But now, tonight, he has the feeling that they will not come. That, for a few hours, at least, he will find peace.

THE END.


End file.
